A Very Glee Christmas Carol
by Keitorin Asthore
Summary: When Burt Hummel lost his wife, he let a lot of things fall by the wayside- especially his relationship with his son. But the spirit of his wife and an unholy trinity of Christmas ghosts might help him change that.
1. Scrooge

Disclaimer: Glee belongs to Ryan Murphy and Fox. A Christmas Carol belongs to Charles Dickens. Neither belong to me.

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><p>Mollie was dead to begin with.<p>

There is no doubt whatever about that. Burt Hummel never forgot it. In fact, there were some days that that was all that he could seem to remember. His wife of eight years died, quite suddenly and without his permission, leaving him alone save for a small shy son of very little consequence and far too much resemblance to his late wife. He buried her on a cold snowy Christmas day, and while the church brimmed over with mourners on the day of her funeral, he was sure that no one felt her loss as keenly as he did.

The mention of Mollie's funeral brings me back to the point I started from. There is no doubt that Mollie was dead. This must be distinctly understood, or nothing wonderful can come of the story I am going to relate.

Burt Hummel was not a tight-fisted hand at the grindstone. He was not a squeezing, wrenching, grasping, covetous old sinner. But he was a stern man, a silent man, hard and sharp as flint, secret and self-contained, and solitary as an oyster. He worked every day of the year, clocking his time in and out of his impeccably maintained garage with astonishing regularity, kept to himself without petty conversations with his clients or employees, and held a well-polished reputation of being quite a grimly terrifying specimen of humanity.

Nobody ever stopped him in the street to ask him how he was. No beggars implored him to bestow a trifle, no children asked him the time, no man or woman ever once in all his life inquired the way to such-and-such a place. Those foolhardy souls who attempted these questions in the earliest days following his wife's death were met with a brief grunt and a withering glare.

But what did Burt Hummel care? It was the very thing he liked, to edge his way along the crowded paths of life, warning all human sympathy to keep its distance. Some remembered the days prior to his wife's death, a vague distant memory of a kind man full of shrewd wisdom, but no one recalled it to him. No one spoke to him at all, in fact, unless it was strictly necessary.

Once upon a time, in the year of our Lord 2020, it was Christmas. Well, to be precise, the day before Christmas.

This happy day was met with no acknowledgement to our Mr. Hummel, who continued his work with a steadfastness both admirable and alarming. Holidays meant nothing to him. Halloween and Easter, New Year's and Thanksgiving, and yes, most especially Christmas, he arrived at his garage at six in the morning and work till seven.

His employees were forced to do the same; for example, at this very moment, one of his employees, a lanky young man in his late twenties, was shivering as he attempted to replace a transmission with nearly frostbitten hands. He tried to pull on his threadbare gloves, but it rendered his already clumsy fingers downright dangerous, and he gritted his teeth to carry on. Mr. Hummel didn't notice, or simply did not care. Heat was a luxury, and he didn't care much for luxuries. Thus, with its often-opened doors and drafty windows, the garage was quite chilled on this December day in Ohio.

Our Mr. Hummel was elbows-deep in an engine when he was approached by a young man. Fair-skinned and blue-eyed, dressed in a simple but well-cut red winter coat and pinstriped trousers, he would be considered quite handsome if it wasn't for how skittish he seemed. He approached Burt Hummel carefully, his polished knee-high boots making little sound on the dirty concrete floor, but he was not acknowledged.

The young man cleared his throat, squaring his shoulders and taking on an air of false merriment. "Merry Christmas, Dad," he said, his voice light and fakely cheerful.

Mr. Hummel straightened, leveling his gaze at the blue-eyed boy. "What the hell, Kurt?" he said.

The cheerfulness ebbed, but Kurt rose up on his toes, hands deep in his pockets, and smiled. His cheeks were rosy with the cold and his eyes were bright. "Blaine and I are in town for Christmas," he said.

"Your friend."

"Husband."

This exchange had the air of an often-fought battle; the employee with the frozen hands glanced up from his tires to see if it would go any further. It did not.

"Why are you wasting money on traveling to Ohio for Christmas?" Mr. Hummel asked. "You're poor enough."

"Why don't you celebrate Christmas? You're rich enough," Kurt retorted.

Mr. Hummel scowled. "Waste of time," he said.

Kurt sighed. "Don't be cross, Dad," he said.

"Well, what do you want from me?" Burt asked. He waved at the cars amassed around the garage. "The only thing about Christmas is that people travel during snowstorms and tear up their cars. I make twice as much in winter as I do in the summer. And you and your…you waste your money renting a car and driving down from New York City, just for a holiday invented by greeting card companies." He gestured broadly with an oil-stained wrench. "You know, if I had my way, every dumbass who goes around shouting about a 'Merry Christmas' should baked into his own overpriced turkey and buried with a stake of holly through his heart."

"Dad!" Kurt said, horrified.

"Son," Mr. Hummel said. "You do whatever the hell you want for Christmas, and I'll do whatever I want for mine."

"But you don't do anything for Christmas," Kurt said, perplexed.

"Well, then let me leave it alone, then," Mr. Hummel retorted. "Hasn't done me much good. Hasn't done you much good either."

Kurt squared his shoulders. "Dad, I know things were never the same after-"

"Don't say it."

"-after Mom died," Kurt kept on. "But you can't keep living like this. You're working yourself into an early grave, you don't have any friends, you barely even have any-"

Here he cut off, but I imagine he was about to say "family."

Kurt clenched his fists in the confines of his pockets. "Neither us have particularly good memories about this time of year," he said. "But even though we've had some bad years, I've always thought that Christmas is an amazing holiday. A good, kind, forgiving, charitable, pleasant time, when people actually stop acting like idiots and spend time with their families and treat people around them like valuable human beings. And that's why, Dad, I still think Christmas _has _done me good, and _will _do me good, and if I wasn't an atheist, then I wish that God would bless it."

"Amen!" piped up the frozen-fingered mechanic, and our Mr. Hummel, sorry to say, shot him a glare that sent the poor young man in a hasty frenzy of work, in order to somehow make up his impropriety.

"Hudson, I hear another sound out of you, and you can celebrate Christmas in the unemployment line," Mr. Hummel retorted. He turned back to his son. "You're quite a speaker. Pity you didn't go into politics instead of fashion."

He spat that word out of his mouth, like one would say "slaughtering puppies" or perhaps "laughing at small children in a cancer ward."

The rosiness faded from Kurt's cheeks. "Don't be angry, Dad," he implored. He sidled up closer. "Blaine and I are celebrating Christmas with his family tomorrow, and…we have sort of…some good news, and we'd all really like it if you were there."

He was promptly ignored.

"Dad, please," Kurt said. "Why-"

"Why?" Mr. Hummel interrupted. "Why did you get married?"

Kurt blinked. "Because I fell in love," he said, simply and unadorned.

"Because you fell in love," Mr. Hummel mocked. "Kid, let me tell you, it's not gonna do you any good. Trust me." He turned back to the car's engine. "See you later."

Kurt edged closer, not to be dismissed so easily. "Dad, you never visited before I was married," he snapped. "Why use that as a reason now?"

"See you later."

"I'm not asking for anything. Why can't you just come and eat dinner with us?"

"See you later."

Kurt took a step back, his face drained of color; his vibrantly red coat only served to make him look even more bluish and sickly. "I'm sorry that you feel like this," he said, his chin jutting out in stubbornness and his voice trembling only the slightest touch. "I've never picked a fight with you before, and I don't know why you hate me so much. But I thought…I would at least try." He took a step back, feet planted firmly. "Merry Christmas, Dad."

"See you later."

"No, you _won't_," Kurt burst out, his temper getting the best of him, and he stormed out, nearly knocking into the hapless mechanic working by the door. "Bye, Finn. Merry Christmas."

"Merry Christmas, Kurt," Finn Hudson offered.

Mr. Hummel rolled his eyes. "Not quite thirty, three kids and no wife, and even _he _goes around talking about a merry Christmas," he muttered to himself.

He ignored his son as he left the garage, but another person let himself in, offering a warm smile to Finn Hudson and approaching Mr. Hummel's workbench with an air of confidence. "Mr. Hummel, I believe?" he said.

Mr. Hummel grunted. "You here to get that muffler of yours fixed?" he asked, pointing with a derisive finger at the man's ancient blue sedan.

The man, a pleasant-faced man in his forties, continued undaunted. "At this festive time of year, Mr. Hummel," he said, "it is more than usually desirable that we should make some slight provision for the poor and destitute, who suffer greatly at the present time. Many thousands are in want of common necessaries; hundreds of thousands are in want of common comforts." He cleared his throat and looked up from his clipboard. "I am the director for the local high school glee club. We're hosting a fundraising concert to benefit a foundation that assists homeless runaway teenagers."

"Don't they still have juvie?" Mr. Hummel asked.

The glee club director blinked. "Of course there's still juvenile detention, but-"

"And work camps?" Mr. Hummel asked. "They've still got those."

"They are."

"Oh, well, from the way you were talking, I was scared they got shut down," Mr. Hummel said, turning back to his car. "I pay taxes. My taxes go to those. There we go, I contributed."

The glee club director stared at him, dumbstruck. "But it's _Christmas_," he stammered. "Won't you give just a little bit? What can I put you down for?"

"Nothing."

The pen was poised upon the page. "You wish to remain anonymous?"

"I want you to leave me the hell alone."

The man in the threadbare scarf stared at him, mouth agape in astonishment. "But sir, I-"

"Look, Mr.-"

"Schuester."

"I don't pay to celebrate Christmas myself, and I'm not gonna pay for a bunch of punk kids to celebrate it either," Mr. Hummel snapped. "I pay taxes for all of those places, and if they're homeless, they can go there, or they can go home."

"But…Mr. Hummel, these kids have already left bad situations," the teacher stammered. "Many of them would rather die than go back."

"Well, if they're gonna die, they'd better do it, and decrease the surface population," Mr. Hummel said. "Now get the hell out of my shop."

The glee club director was clearly stunned into silence. He left the shop with many a backward glance, but Mr. Hummel just smirked to himself as he went back to work.

Regrettably, the pale afternoon sunshine faded into darkness, indicating the end of a long and pleasant workday. Mr. Hummel kept on with his work, intent as staying on as long as possible. But, alas, his employee began to slowly and quietly pack up his tools, and Mr. Hummel was forced to close up as well.

"I guess you want tomorrow off, don't you?" he grunted.

"Uh…yeah," his employee said, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. "If it's okay."

"It's not okay, and it's not fair," Mr. Hummel said. "If I was to dock your wages, you'd think yourself ill-used."

The young man smiled awkwardly. "It's only once a year," he offered. "And the kids are so excited to have me home, they-"

"I didn't ask for a life story," Mr. Hummel interrupted. "It's poor excuse for picking a man's pocket every twenty-fifth of December." He sighed. "Be here an hour earlier the day after."

"Yes, sir," Finn Hudson said eagerly. "Thank you, sir."

He gathered up his things and left swiftly. Mr. Hummel didn't ask him where he went; the young man took a forty-minute bus ride to his little house at the edge of town, where the doors didn't close all the way and the windows let in a terrible draft, but three little children ran to greet him on the stoop and his mother waited with his held-over dinner and a welcome home hug.

On the contrary, Mr. Hummel drove down the quiet melancholy streets to a small melancholy diner and had a melancholy dinner of third-rate pot roast. After catching up on a handful of sports scores and balancing the shop's finance book, he headed to his house.

Now, it is a fact that the knocker on the front door, except that it was very large. It is also a fact that Mr. Hummel had seen it night and morning for the past thirty years. Let it also be borne in mind that while Mr. Hummel had dwelled upon the death of his beloved wife since the moment of her passing, he was a practical man, not given to flights of fancy nor leaps of the imagination. And let any man explain it to me, if he can, how it happened that as Mr. Hummel put his key to the lock of his front door, he saw in his knocker not the plain brass, but his wife's face.

Mollie's face. It was not shadowed, but lit and bright. It was not angry nor ferocious, but looked as she had had in life. Her hair was curiously stirred, as if by a soft wind, and though the eyes were wide and very blue, they were motionless.

As Mr. Hummel stared at this phenomenon, it became a knocker once more.

To say that he was not startled would be a lie, but as he was a man of plain fact, he turned the key and stepped resolutely inside.

He did pause to look around as he stepped in, and he did look cautiously behind the door, but as there was nothing there to alarm him, he scowled and tossed his old denim coat over the rack in the hall. He didn't turn on the lights, for dark was cheap, and Mr. Hummel liked it. But before he made his way up the stairs, he stopped to look warily through the rooms of his home- tomb-like kitchen, silent living room, barren unfinished basement.

He locked himself into his bedroom and prepared for the night. The room was cold, for paying for heat was too rich in his taste, but he turned on the lamp at his bedside table.

His wife's old vanity stood untouched beside the window, its coating of dust thick across the mirror. He kept a photograph of her on the counter, framed in shining silver. For a fleeting moment as he dressed for bed he thought he saw the picture move, the breeze catching the hem of her dress and her mouth drawing down in a frown, but that was most certainly impossible.

As he sat down upon his bed, shaking his head to clear the image from his mind, a bell began to chime.

At first, he thought nothing of it- the grandfather clock in the hall chimed every hour on the hour. But it continued to toll, bright and clear.

Mr. Hummel shifted his weight, unpleasantly unsettled. "It's nothing," he told himself. "It's crap."

He turned his head, and there was his wife.

"Burt Hummel, what the _hell _are you doing?" Mollie demanded.

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><p><strong>Author's Notes:<strong>

Welcome to my Christmas special, ladies and gentlemen!

I got this idea after last Christmas last year, but I didn't want to write it when it wasn't, you know, Christmas. So I saved it for this year! It's my Christmas present to everybody. You get a chapter every day from now to Christmas! Huzzah!

I'm a huge lover of A Christmas Carol- I've read it so much I can actually recite large portions of it! So this story is sort of a cross between a pastiche of Dickens' style and my own writing style.

I hope you enjoy this! I'm in the middle of writing the Ghost of Christmas Past chapter and oh man, will there be tears...


	2. Mollie was Dead

Disclaimer: Glee belongs to Ryan Murphy and Fox. A Christmas Carol belongs to Charles Dickens. Neither belongs to me.

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><p>Her face was the same, the very same- heart shaped, pale as porcelain but rosy-cheeked and dotted in charming freckles, pert little nose, large seafoam eyes fringed with thick curling lashes. She was dressed in the same manner she did in life, her cardigan buttoned over her dress and her long thick hair tied back with a thin ribbon. Her body was nearly transparent, and as she moved he could see the room behind her, but her plain little white gold band still flashed upon her left hand.<p>

Though Mr. Hummel could clearly see the specter of his long-dead wife, and knew that the voice and the manner was the same, he was a practical man, and fought against his senses.

"What do you want from me?" he asked calmly, as if he was merely inquiring why a client had entered his garage.

Mollie scowled. "Everything," she snapped.

Mr. Hummel shifted his weight. "Who…uh, who are you?" he asked.

"Ask me who I was," she said, crossing her arms.

"Well, who were you, then?"

She gestured broadly. "Your wife," she said. "Unless you've forgotten me, like you've forgotten about everything else in your miserable little life."

Mr. Hummel swallowed hard, his throat suddenly dry. "Never," he said. "Never forgotten." He stared at her hungrily, a thousand useless wishes from the past years since her death rushing back to him. "Can you…can you sit down?"

She shrugged. "I can," she said. "But I won't. I didn't come all the way back here just to sit down and have a chat." He continued to stare at her, mouth slightly agape in astonishment, and with a sigh she sat down at the seat in front of her vanity like she did a thousand times during their marriage. "There. Happy?" She crossed one leg over the other. "You don't believe in me, do you?"

"I don't think so," Mr. Hummel stammered. "I've never believed in ghosts?"

Mollie's eyebrows lowered. "Why do you doubt your senses?" she asked.

"You could be anything," Mr. Hummel accused. "You could be just a bad dream from that greasy diner food, or the beer I had when I came home. Hell, maybe I'm having another heart attack and you're here to escort me to the great beyond or something."

Mollie smiled, sad and wicked all at the same time. "Oh, you had better hope you're not dying," she said. "This isn't the time for jokes, Burt. This is serious."

"Oh, it's serious that I'm having a dream about my dead wife haunting me?" Mr. Hummel jeered. "It's more cruel than serious, if you ask me."

He didn't see Mollie rise, but at once she was looming above him, beautiful and terrible all at once. "You deserve cruelty!" she shouted. "It's more than you deserve!"

Mr. Hummel fell back, his worn-out heart skipping a beat. "What the hell is going on?" he demanded.

"First things first, Burt, do you believe in me?" Mollie demanded.

"I do," Burt said hastily, and she backed away a little. "I have to. But…but why did you come back? And why now, of all the times you could have come back?"

"Because I know what waits for you," Mollie said in a low voice. "I have watched you these eighteen years, waiting for you to see the error of your ways. But you will not. You refuse to change."

"Change what?" Mr. Hummel said. "You wanna change something? How about you not dying on me?" He swallowed hard, hiding within the safe boundaries of anger. "You ruined my life when you died!"

"You have ruined your own life," Mollie said. "With every choice, with every hard word, with every awful action, you have forged the chains that drag you downward. And because you won't let me go, I can't go."

She held up her hands, and suddenly Mr. Hummel saw. He saw long lengths of heavy chains, some links rusted and some shiny and new, wrapped round his arms and legs, bringing him to the ground with his weight, and he saw where the chain stretched from his own fetters to reach his own wife's slender wrists.

"You wear the chains you forged in life," she said. "You made it link by link and yard by yard, tying yourself down from your own free will with every terrible choice you've made, and by your will I wear it too."

Mr. Hummel's mouth had gone dry. "Mollie," he rasped. "Tell me it's gonna work out. It'll work out, right?"

"I have no comfort to give," she said. "I'm dead, Burt. I'm dead and I'm gone and there's nothing I can do." She glanced back over her shoulder. "I have more important things to worry about now. I've been trapped on this earth, but at least I've been doing something good."

"You never spoke to me before this," Mr. Hummel said. "I never knew…Mollie, every time I called for you-"

"Someone always needed me more than you," Mollie said.

"Who?" Mr. Hummel demanded. "I needed you, Mollie. Who could possibly need you more than me?"

The color drained fully from Mollie's face; even her hair and clothing seemed to pale in her anger. "Our _son_!" she cried, and Mr. Hummel took a step back. "Our child matters, Burt, he's always mattered, but you've been so fixated on your own grief and your own thoughts that you've turned into yourself and shut everyone away, including the child that needed you."

Mr. Hummel was struck speechless.

The spirit glanced back over her shoulder again, as if someone was calling for her, and turned back. "My time is short," she said. "Listen to me."

"I will," Mr. Hummel stammered. "Just…please, don't be so hard on me."

"You will be haunted by three spirits," Mollie said. "This is the only hope I have to offer you."

"I…I think I'd rather not," Mr. Hummel said.

She ignored him. "Expect the first ghost when the bell tolls one," she said.

"Couldn't I get 'em all at once, and get 'em over with?" he suggested.

"The second shall come when the bells tolls two, the last when the bell tolls three," she said. "You won't see me anymore…but let us both hope that you remember what has happened tonight."

The bell in the hall began to chime again, deceptively merry, and Mollie began to fade, like water droplets on a hot day. Mr. Hummel put out a desperate hand to touch her, to grasp hold of her soft pale hand one last time, but she was dead still, and his hand passed through her.

She looked down at his hand, her face drawn in sorrowful lines, and she vanished from his sight.

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><p><strong>Author's Notes:<strong>

Ooh, Mollie is pissed.

I hope you guys are enjoying this! It's really interesting to write outside my own style. I think the next chapter veers a bunch into my usual writing style, but yeah.

Next we see the Ghost of Christmas Past. And it's not going to be a happy time.


	3. The Ghost of Christmas Past

Disclaimer: Glee belongs to Ryan Murphy and Fox, not me.

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><p>Upon his wife's disappearance, Mr. Hummel double checked all the doors and windows of his dark house. He latched each lock and switched off every light, and once he had reassured himself that he was quite safe, he retreated to his room, drew the curtains over his windows, and promptly fell in a deep, dreamless sleep.<p>

He awoke to the sound of the clock in the hall chiming, bright and cheerful. It was then that he remembered his wife's words- _expect the first spirit when the bell tolls one._

But that was merely a dream, wasn't it? He hadn't seen the ghost of his wife after all.

He rolled over onto his side in an effort to go back to sleep, and found himself face to face with the first spirit.

She seemed quite young, perhaps sixteen years old. Her blonde hair curled softly to her shoulders, charming and old-fashioned in its look, and one side was pinned back with a sprig of holly. She was dressed in white lace that enveloped her like a cloud and was sashed at the waist with vivid red ribbon. While she was pretty and delicate, there was something still quite solemn and frightening about how sharp her green eyes were, as if she could see straight through him.

Mr. Hummel squared his shoulders. "Are you the spirit my wife told me about?" he asked.

"I am," she said, her voice curiously soft and low.

Mr. Hummel frowned. "Who the hell are you?" he asked.

She frowned right back at him. "I am the ghost of Christmas past," she said. "And there's no need to be rude."

"Well, what kind of past?" he asked.

"Your past," she said.

Mr. Hummel sighed. "I don't understand why my wife sent you," he snapped.

The spirit crossed her arms. "Your redemption," she said, slightly irritated. "Now get up, and walk with me."

"Walk with you where?" he said skeptically. She pointed towards the window, her irritation clearly growing, and he folded his arms. "In case you didn't notice, I'm human. One jump out of there and I'm dead."

"A touch of my hand, and you will fly," she said. He remained skeptical, and she grabbed his hand and dragged him towards the window.

It seemed to take only the blink of an eye, but Mr. Hummel found himself on the sidewalk outside his own home, the spirit still gripping his hand. The house seemed the same, and yet different. The exterior was not so shabby, and cheerful Christmas lights blinked in bright colors around the roof. He glanced towards the driveway to see the pickup truck he had driven as a young man in his late teens and twenties, until the transmission had died on the interstate one fateful afternoon. Another car was parked beside it, a blue sedan coated in snow, and he swallowed thickly.

"You know this place?" the spirit said.

"Well, yeah, of course," Mr. Hummel stammered. "It's just…it's different."

"Of course it is," she said. "This is the past."

She walked towards the door, her steps making no print in the thickness of the snow, and he followed her dumbly. The door was barred, but they stepped through as if it was merely fog.

Mr. Hummel blinked and caught his breath. It was his own living room, but quite different. The room was tidy and cozy, a fire crackling merrily in the fireplace, and a lavishly trimmed tree, decorated with a charming disregard for rhyme nor reason with its gold tinsel, colored lights, and hodgepodge of ornaments, stood in one corner, ringed in gaily wrapped presents. Three stockings hung on the mantel, names embroidered across the top in slightly crooked stitches, fairly bulging with small prizes.

But most startling of all to see was his own self, nearly thirty years younger, still handsome and healthy. The Burt Hummel of the past busied himself with poking at the fire, adding another log and carefully tending the flames till they roared merrily.

"Well, Daddy, look who's up from his nap?"

Mr. Hummel turned around to see his long-dead wife standing in the doorway, their baby in her arms. He nearly stopped breathing. She was beautiful- long hair combed in sleek waves over her shoulders, still wearing her red velvet Christmas dress, her blue eyes sparkling in the firelight.

"Mollie," Mr. Hummel breathed.

But she didn't see him or hear him. In fact, Mr. Hummel realized that his past self had walked right through him, approaching his lovely wife with a smile and a kiss. "I've got the fire built," Burt said. "Is the little guy awake enough to open presents?"

"Burt, he's only eight months old," Mollie laughed. "He's not going to care about presents."

"Yeah, but Daddy cares, right, scooter?" Burt said, scooping up the drowsy baby and planting a kiss on his round cheek. "This is more for Mommy and Daddy, huh, Kurt?"

The baby crowed sleepily as Burt nestled him in his arms, cuddled up close to his chest. Mollie smiled, petting the soft dusting of brown hair on the baby's head. "His first Christmas," she murmured. "He's getting so big."

She leaned in to kiss the baby's nose, earning a smile and a happy babble. Mr. Hummel watched the shades of his wife and child hungrily, remembering those days, long-forgotten. The firelight made Mollie's hair shine in hints of red-gold and her blue eyes were bright.

"So beautiful," Mr. Hummel murmured.

"A delicate creature, whom a breath might have withered," the Ghost of Christmas Past remarked. "She died a woman and had one child. Your son, Kurt."

"He looks so much like her," Mr. Hummel said absently.

The Ghost of Christmas Past smiled a little to herself, as if she held a secret. "Let us see another Christmas in this house," she said, and in a blink the scene altered. It was early morning, the pale winter sun shining on the snow outside, and the fire died upon the hearth. The presents under the tree were bigger and grew in number, till they crowded out from under the tree and onto the piano bench. Mr. Hummel smiled absently at the empty plate of cookies and drained-dry glass of milk on the coffee table, left behind in a note written in badly-disguised handwriting. He always did like writing notes from Santa to Kurt. The kid always got such a kick out of it.

He heard little rapid footsteps on the stairs and turned to see his son, small and delicate and flushed in excitement, racing towards him. His hair stuck up a little in the back, mussed from sleep, and he was dressed in red striped pajamas. He couldn't be more than five years old. Without thinking Mr. Hummel put a hand out towards him, as if to catch him, but Kurt ran past him without raising a breath of air.

"This is the past," the Ghost reminded him soberly. "He can neither see nor hear you."

Mr. Hummel watched as his little boy scooted closer to the Christmas tree, one sock sliding off his foot, his eyes wide at he stared at the heap of presents in rapture. Kurt was so caught up in his reveling, in fact, that he didn't hear his mother's soft steps behind him. Mr. Hummel did, of course, and smiled as his wife drew close to Kurt, a pale blue bathrobe tied over her pajamas and her hair loosely curling down her back.

"Did Santa come, baby?" she asked softly.

Kurt whirled around and wrapped his small arms around her. "He did!" he said, hugging his mother fiercely. "I must've been awfully good, Mommy."

Mollie laughed and picked him up. He was almost too big to be carried, but judging by way she cuddled him close and the way he nestled his head against her shoulder, neither of them minded. "Merry Christmas, sweet boy," she whispered, pressing a kiss to his temple.

"Merry Christmas, Mommy," Kurt sighed.

Mr. Hummel watched them wistfully, his pretty wife and his little boy unaware of his presence. He'd forgotten what Kurt had been like at that age- sweet and charming, sometimes willful but always loving. It was hard for him to remember that, ever since that terrible argument when Kurt was still in high school.

"Hey, you didn't get started without me, did you?"

Mr. Hummel looked up to see himself walking down the stairs, grinning widely. Mollie laughed. "Of course we didn't, Burt," she said.

"Daddy!" Kurt crowed, stretching out of his mother's arms.

Burt laughed and swept him up into a hug, holding him easily. "You excited, kiddo?" he asked.

"Santa brought a lot!" Kurt said, eyes wide. "Mommy said I was really good this year."

"You're always good," Burt said. "You wanna open a present?"

"He can open his stocking presents, but big presents have to wait till after breakfast," Mollie reminded them.

"Fine, fine," Burt said. He held Kurt up to lift his stocking from the mantel and sat down in his usual armchair; Kurt scrambled into his lap to open his gifts.

Mr. Hummel felt unusually uneasy. He had forgotten what it had been like when Kurt had been just a child. It was easier to ignore him when he didn't remember.

"I'm sure you know that this isn't a usual Christmas in this house," the Ghost said.

Mr. Hummel's blood ran cold, for he knew what was coming. "No, please," he said. "This is enough."

But the ghost was resolute, and in a moment the happy, idyllic scene faded. The house was again decorated for Christmas, but the tree was stripped of gifts and the stockings dangled from the mantel, empty and forlorn. With a start Mr. Hummel recognized himself slumped in the armchair by the fire, alone save the beer bottle in his hand.

"No, spirit," he pleaded. "I don't want to see this."

Her lips thinned to a white line, impassive and disapproving. "You shall," she said.

Small footsteps sounded from the stairs, echoing in the empty house, and Kurt peeked into the living room. He no longer seemed the same happy child that Mr. Hummel had mused over just a moment ago. His face was pale and his eyes rimmed in red; his pajama shirt was misbuttoned and his pants were too long.

"Daddy?" the child whispered.

Mr. Hummel knew better than to expect an answer from the man sitting in the corner.

Kurt hesitantly edged into the darkened room. He looked around from the Christmas tree, morose without its lights and empty of presents, to the abandoned stockings. The plate of cookies was untouched. "Did…did Santa not come?" he questioned, his voice wobbling.

"No, Santa didn't come," Burt said bitterly.

"Was I bad?" Kurt whispered.

"There isn't a Santa, Kurt," Burt snapped. "It was me and your mom, every time. And now your mom's dead, so…"

His voice trailed off. Kurt stood at the foot of the stairs, clutching the banister, his face fading whiter and whiter. "Wh…what?" he stammered.

Burt stood up and viciously yanked Mollie's stocking off the mantel before tossing it into the dying embers of the fireplace. Kurt flinched. "We're not doing Christmas this year," Burt shouted. "Go get dressed, we have a funeral to go to."

Mr. Hummel stared at the scene before him. The little boy ran past him, fleeing to the safety of his room, his breath catching in his throat. "Your wife was killed a few days before Christmas," the Ghost of Christmas Past remarked. "A car accident. She was hit head-on and died instantly."

"We buried her on Christmas Day," Mr. Hummel said, his mouth dry.

"And you stopped celebrating Christmas."

"How could I?" Mr. Hummel snapped. "It's nothing but a reminder that my wife was taken from me!"

"And yet you were not alone," the Ghost said. "You chose to grieve alone."

She walked up the stairs, her feet hovering above the ground, and Mr. Hummel was compelled to follow her. Silently she led him into the little bedroom at the top of the stairs- Kurt's room.

The little boy had thrown himself across his bed, facedown amongst the unkempt covers, and he was crying, the force shaking his entire tiny frame. "I wanna die!" he sobbed into his pillows. "I wanna die like Mommy! I don't wanna be here!"

Mr. Hummel stared at him, thunderstruck. "I didn't…I didn't know," he said. His hand raised of his own accord, reaching to smooth Kurt's soft hair away from his hot forehead, or perhaps to dry his tears, but his hand faded through and he could not touch him.

"You sent him away and he cried alone," the Ghost said, her voice devoid of compassion. "In a moment he will get up and dress for his mother's funeral and wash the tears from his face, and you'll never know."

"He never told me," Mr. Hummel stammered.

"You never asked."

The child continued to sob into his pillow, his small body wracked with each harsh hitching breath. It was a heartbreaking sight, and Mr. Hummel turned his face away.

"Spirit, why are you showing me this?" he demanded.

"These are the shadows of things that have been," she said. "They are what they are. Do not blame me." Her eyes narrowed. "Let us see another Christmas."

The house changed again, growing darker and shabbier, and the tree faded away entirely. Mr. Hummel shifted his weight uncomfortably as once again he saw himself sitting in his armchair, idly watching a football game.

His son sat on the couch opposite him, dressed in jeans and a hooded sweatshirt, absently looking at a book while he rested his chin in his hand. Even Mr. Hummel could see that he was unhappy- though about what, he couldn't be sure. He was a teenager now, but still small for his age, his cheeks still round.

The two of them sat in silence. There was no sign of Christmas anywhere in the room, even though the jaunty lights of the house blinked a cheerful red and green through the front window. Burt flipped through the channels on the commercial break, looking for something to watch while he waited for the football game to come back on.

"You still on the football team?" Burt asked, breaking the silence.

"No," Kurt said quietly.

"When'd you quit?"

"Last month."

Burt scowled. "Don't you like football?" he said.

"Not particularly."

"You're not gonna get into college if you don't have anything on your application," Burt said. "What d'you wanna join, the glee club?" He didn't wait long enough for Kurt to answer. "Yeah, right. Like I'd ever let a kid of mine do that." He flipped back to the basketball game and settled back in his chair. "Leave the singing and dancing to the pansy-ass fags."

Burt didn't notice his son flinch, but our Mr. Hummel did. The jab seemed all the sharper now.

"He already knew," the Ghost said. "He knew who he was, and you refused to give him the safety to come out."

"I know that," Mr. Hummel snapped. "I just didn't…I didn't want my kid…" His voice trailed off. "Just…take me somewhere else."

The Ghost said nothing, but things seemed to change. Burt was still sitting in his armchair, but a different game flashed on the television. Kurt was gone from the couch.

"Kurt, dinner ready yet?" Burt called.

"In a minute, Dad."

Kurt walked out of the kitchen, and Mr. Hummel caught his breath. The boy was definitely in high school- fifteen, perhaps sixteen years old- but he looked dreadful. His face was thin and angular, his skin sallow and his eyes ringed in dark shadows. He wore his shirt buttoned to the neck and the sleeves pulled over his skinny wrists, and his jeans were a good two sizes too big for his skeletal frame.

"You want water with dinner?" Kurt asked.

"Nope, get me a beer."

"We're out of beer."

"A Coke, then."

Kurt bit his thin lower lip. "Dad, your heart-"

Burt finally turned around. "You're not the boss," he said. "Get me a Coke."

Kurt opened up his mouth to argue, then closed it. Mr. Hummel watched him walk into the kitchen, noting the way he seemed to favor his right knee. He opened the refrigerator to reach for a soda, but an uncovered container tipped as his arm brushed against it, spilling over his shirt.

Kurt closed his eyes, his lips pressing into a white line, and he slammed the door of the refrigerator before yanking viciously at the buttons of his shirt and sliding it off his arms with a sharp wince.

Mr. Hummel caught his breath at the sight before him. Kurt's slender back was peppered with black and blue bruises, his spine arching in a line of bony bumps. He stared aghast at the sight of his child. "What happened to him?" he said, watching in horror as Kurt walked over to the tiny laundry room and picked up a clean shirt.

"Bullies," the spirit said simply. "They tortured him. He couldn't eat. He couldn't sleep. You used to yell at him about his dropping grades. Did you ever think to ask him why?"

"No," Mr. Hummel whispered. "No, I never…I never did."

His chest ached at the sight of his son, his only child, struggling to pull a clean long sleeved tee shirt over his heavily bruised body. He had never realized…he never noticed.

"Please don't make me watch this anymore," Mr. Hummel whispered.

"Fine," the Ghost said. "But you're not going to like the next Christmas much more than this one."

He didn't think that could be managed, but with a touch of her hand, the spirit brought them into the self-same living room for yet another Christmas. But this time, Mr. Hummel remembered it.

"Oh god," he breathed. "No. Not this one."

"Yes, this one," the Ghost said, nonplussed.

It was their house, and it was Christmas, but father and son were caught in an argument, screaming at each other at the top of their lungs. "No son of mine will be a queer!" Burt bellowed.

"Dad, please, stop saying that!" Kurt begged. "I'm still your son!"

"Kurt, I'm not gonna tolerate this," Burt snapped. "You can't be gay. I didn't raise you that way."

"You didn't raise me at all!" Kurt burst out. "Ever since Mom died, you just let go of everything. You let go of me. You haven't noticed me since I was eight years old!"

"God, Kurt, stop it," Burt said. "Of course I noticed you. I kept you fed and clothed, a roof over your head…"

"Dad, enough!" Kurt shouted. He dragged his fingers through his hair. "Enough! Enough of everything. I can't take it anymore." A sob caught in his throat. "Don't even bother, Dad. I got accepted to a school in New York. I'm leaving when I graduate, and I'm not…I'm not coming back!"

"Fine, then," Burt snapped. "Do what you want. Do whatever the hell you want."

"I will," Kurt said, holding his chin stubbornly high, but Mr. Hummel could see the tell-tale tremble in his narrow shoulders.

"Spirit, no more," Mr. Hummel said. "I can't take this anymore."

"Neither could your son," the Ghost of Christmas past snapped, and suddenly they were no longer in the living room of the house, but in his own garage. He could see his own past self working busily on an engine, not even noticing that his own son was approaching him.

Kurt was still painfully thin and his eyes were anxious. "Dad?" he ventured.

Burt glanced at him over his shoulder. "Kurt," he said, seemingly unaffected. "Haven't seen you in a while."

"It's been six years," Kurt said quietly. "You…you never answered any of my letters."

Burt grunted.

The Ghost of Christmas Present glanced towards Mr. Hummel. "Did you read them?" she inquired.

"I…most of them," Mr. Hummel stammered. "But I never…never answered him."

Kurt was twisting his fingers together in the fringe of his scarf. "Dad, I have something important to tell you," he said.

"You graduating?"

"I graduated a few years ago, remember?" Kurt said. He squared his shoulders, his face falling into grim lines like a soldier marching into battle. "Dad, I'm getting married."

Mr. Hummel flinched.

"To a woman?" Burt asked.

"No," Kurt whispered. "I'm marrying Blaine. We've been together since my freshman year of college. Remember?" "If you're not marrying a woman, you're not getting married," Burt said flatly, turning his back to pick up a wrench.

"It's legal!" Kurt protested. "And Dad, I…I _love _him."

Mr. Hummel's mouth went dry. "Spirit, don't make me watch this," he begged. "I can't. I know I could've been better. Stop torturing me like this!"

The Ghost did not answer, but in a moment the scene faded, and Mr. Hummel found himself once again alone in his room, his head spinning in the sudden silence.

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Notes:<strong>

Waaaaah, my eternal Kurt-related creys.

_Why do I torture the Hummels so?_

But I hope you enjoyed this chapter anyway. And next chapter you get see what Kurt and Blaine and Finn are all up to, so yay!

Also, the Ghost of Christmas Past was Quinn. Because it's an unholy trinity of ghosts...


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